Sitting at the desk, Watson began to write, slowly at first but with gathering confidence that he could still find his old style and pace. It was almost a physical exhilaration when he did, as if he had rediscovered his rugger legs and lungs.
It was April 1890 (and not 1892 as some accounts would have it), as the debilitating bone-chill of a lengthy winter had finally begun to relax its grip on the metropolis, when my friend Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to what the daily Press were calling The Rugby Mystery and some others The Girl and the Gold Watches. Holmes had recently completed his investigation into a most gruesome business, involving jealousy and murder. The solution to the case had put him in a rather sombre mood. ‘What is the meaning of it, Watson?’ he had exclaimed, not for the first time. Peering into the darkest corners of the human soul often caused him to recoil in revulsion at the depravity of his fellow man. ‘What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever?’
By the time he put the pen down from between aching fingers, two hours had passed in blissful immersion elsewhere and Watson swore he could feel the heat of the Baker Street fire, when the curtain was thrust back.
‘Emergency Appell,’ said Parsons, before adding, ‘Sir.’
Watson looked out of his window. Snow was falling in large flakes now, an impenetrable wall. ‘In this?’
Parsons’ pockmarked face stretched into a grin. ‘The colder and wetter the better for Mad Bill.’
Watson pulled on the unfortunate boots and his greatcoat and went into the main section of the hut, where he found the other men doing likewise, all grumbling loudly.
‘Bastard. What about lunch?’
‘That bloody bread? That’s not lunch.’ ‘What you having for luncheon, Cocky?’
‘I thought I might have grouse.’ This from a captain, who must be Hugh Peacock, the bon viveur that Critchley had told him about. He was certainly plumper than the average inmate, dark-haired, baby-faced, neat moustache as black as coal. His boots, too, Watson noted with envy, were a cut above, knee-high and fur-lined.
‘Come on, gentlemen, hurry along.’ It was the one-armed Feldwebel, Brünning. ‘Do not keep the commandant waiting. Or it’ll be Stubby for you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of solitary,’ someone piped up. ‘Can’t be worse than sharing a room with Cocky’s grouse farts.’
‘The commandant—’
To Watson’s surprise, the whole hut burst into song, drowning out the remainder of the Feldwebel’s sentence.
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
He’s been sent to torment us.
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
Always on a percentage,
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
Says us guys are swell,
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
Yet makes our lives hell.
Peacock took up a cod-operatic solo refrain in a surprisingly fine baritone.
He used to sell silken knickers,
To the gals of Indiana,
But we only want to show him
The size of our Vickers.
The others then came back in with a chorus.
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
Likes to eat a banger,
Mad Bill, Mad Bill,
One day will come a clanger.
Even the Feldwebel gave a half-smile and then looked puzzled. ‘But isn’t it to drop a clanger? Don’t you come a cropper?’
‘Artistic licence, Rufus, old chum,’ said Peacock with a smirk.
Brünning’s smile faded at the familiarity and he shook his head vigorously. ‘You must hurry, or you will be writing your verses on a prison wall.’
Outside the ravaged mountainsides had disappeared beneath a shimmering grey screen of cloud and the snow was falling steadily. Watson followed the inmates of his hut over to the designated line. This time, Wilhelm ‘Mad Bill’ Kügel was standing on the balcony, one of his junior officers holding an over-sized umbrella above his head. The commandant was a stocky fellow, but broad, with a well-nourished face and, as far as Watson could ascertain, deep-set eyes. Kügel’s arms were crossed and his gloved hands were tapping his biceps impatiently. As soon as the prisoners were in line he accepted a megaphone from his aide-de-camp. When he spoke, with a bizarre German/Midwest accent, he sounded like an American fairground barker.
‘Gentlemen. You disappoint me. It has come to my attention that last night escape equipment was found in the tin room. A compass. A saw. A map. Jesus, fellas, have I not been fair and square with you? This man, this foolish man, threatens the lives of all of you. He will, of course, be punished. But you all share responsibility. You will remain here for one hour. And the lunch ration is cut by half.’
There was an almighty groan, an almost bovine noise rising from the crowd. Watson, too, made a grunt of irritation. The snow was already blowing into the open toe of his boot. An hour in these conditions and he risked chilblains or worse. He looked around and eventually found Lincoln-Chance, who no doubt had feet as warm as toast. As soon as they were released from the line-up he would go over and have it out with him.
‘And so, Stubenarrest,’ Mad Bill continued, looking down at a sheet of paper that was handed to him, ‘for the man who tried to smuggle in the proscribed items. Step out of line, Major John Watson.’